Of Man and Machine
by BeTheChangeYouSee
Summary: It brought to mind something he remembered someone (tall, taller than he should be, blond, lots of muscles) telling him once, about a brunette who asked, "And these are your only two options?" and promptly flew into a warzone. Were those his only two options? Leaving his daughter and everything going to shit, or staying with her and everything going to shit?
1. Installment 1

He awoke, and there was blood. It coated his hands, his clothes, his face. Like some macabre leaky tap, it dripped onto the stone floor, staining grey with red. Red, red, red – like the star on his shoulder, like the shield of a man he'd long forgotten – dripping and staining and spreading.

The blood was the first thing that he knew as the Machine gave way to the Man. The second was a gurgling rasp; the third, weak hands clutching at his shirt. And then it was like being thrown out of a plane at high speed, because suddenly he knew _where_ he was and who _she_ was and whathe'd _done_ –

"No," he croaked. His hands grasped at her throat, hoping that it would somehow slow the flood pulsing from the deep gash there. It was a fool's hope – she was deathly white and paling by the second, her pupils blown. "No no no no no no, don't, no, please no, God no…"

There was no response. Her lower lip quivered, and the grip on his shirt slackened.

"Yekaterina," he begged. "Katya, Katya, please, Милая, don't, oh God no, no, no!"

He didn't know how long he sat there pleading, but his arm detecting the slight stiffening of her limbs was what broke him from his stupor. Shifting slightly, he laid her down gently on the stone. Well away from the puddle of blood he was sitting in, she appeared like some porcelain doll, wide-eyed and eggshell-faced, not like the butchered girl she truly was.

The girl that he'd butchered.

When he moved, the blood that drenched his pants squelched. It smelt, too, left a copper tang in the air. Abruptly, the urge to vomit became too much and he emptied his measly stomach contents onto the floor, where it mixed with the blood and made him even dizzier. Flashes of a small man sitting with his head between his knees was offered up as a solution, but the state of his pants nixed that as an option.

The Machine – that cold, calculating part of him that would kill without second thought – forced the Man's gaze away from the blood and vomit and dead body. Searching, searching, sear– _ah_!

He eyed the Gerber deserted on the floor. _Must've dropped it when she fought back_ , the Man mused, a buzz now ringing in his ears. _When she fought back … why did he let her fight back? She should've been dead before she knew it._

When the Machine killed, he was quick. Efficient. _Click_ **bang** dead. The targets never knew what hit them. Even when it was a longer op, the Machine never took risks that would expose him, he just went in there, did his job and left. The girl shouldn't have known he was in the building, let alone have had the opportunity to fight back.

 _Did he get distracted?_

Rarely. Distraction must be significant: change in target or added variable. **Another person.** _Another person?_ But the hovel was barely two rooms and the Man could see into _her_ bedroom, there was nothing there but blankets and a cardboard box.

He found himself drawn to the girl's empty gaze, her full face, and the sobs started in his chest again. _Nonononononotherplea_ – No, he'd finished his mission and soon they'd be here. If they knew he was like this after a mission, after _this_ mission–

With a shake of his head, he got to his feet. There was a sink over to the side, one with a leaky tap that dripped and made him question whether he'd imagined the sound blood made against concrete.

 _Inconsequential_ , the Machine grunted. C _lean up. Ready for extraction_.

The Man didn't know what else to do, so he obeyed.

It wasn't until he was washing it out that he realised how much blood there was. There was far too much of it to clean, so he stuck to the hands, scrubbing his fingernails and the creases of his palm with fanaticism. Red, red, red – like the star, like the shield – washing away down the sink.

It wasn't calm, per se, that filled him, but more a stillness. He could feel the Machine settling over him then, coaxing him back into his box. Ever since the last time he escaped, it was harder to fight him for control.

He turned off the tap. It screeched into the still. From the corner of his eye, the cardboard box moved.

And through the haze of the Machine, the Man heard a baby cry.


	2. Installment 2

_Snick_ – **BANG**!

He started awake, piece in hand and finger on the trigger in half a heartbeat.

"Papa, papa, look what I drew!"

It took him a few seconds to realise where he was. _Who_ he was with. And then he was flicking the safety on and tossing the gun aside, bile creeping at the back of his throat as he fell to his knees onto the ratty carpet. He'd almost _– oh God, nonononono_ – he'd almost–

His daughter's bright face shone up at him, not far from where he had leapt off his bed. She kept babbling at him, holding up a sheet of paper with colourful squiggles for his inspection. She had no idea how close she'd come to– and she just kept chattering on like nothing had _happened_ when he'd almost–

It was too much.

"Get out!" he snapped. She recoiled, and guilt stabbed him like a knife to the chest, sharp and uncomfortable. He hated it, hated the look on her chubby little face, but she couldn't be there, not while he was still shaking off the other guy. "Out!"

"Papa, what–?"

"I told you, _get out! Get out!_ _I don't want you here!_ " he yelled, his desperation straining his voice.

She burst into tears. Abruptly, she turned on her heel and fled, leaving her drawing fluttering to the floor beside him. He heard her running down the to her room, heard the banging of her door against the wall, and knew that later he would be cursing the damage her Irish temper doled out on the house.

But then, in that moment of self-hatred and panic, he couldn't think about the probable property damage.

Guilt gnawed his insides like a particularly vicious acid. He _hated_ getting angry at her, despised it with his entire being, but he couldn't help it. When he yelled at her, he – he, the Man, _James Buchanan_ ** _Barnes_** , _32557038_ – could feel _him_ bubbling to the surface, triggered by the unknown threat. To have her in the same room as _him_ when he didn't know what the Soldier would d– it was unthinkable.

The last mission he – he, the Machine, the Winter Soldier, _areyoureadytocomplySergeant?_ – was given was a kill mission that, had it gone to plan, would've left his sweet Dashenka as dead as her mother. Lukin's revenge for his disobedience: making him the murderer of the family he'd given up to protect. That part of him, the part that was more Machine than Man, had complied without a second thought, and it frightened him.

 _What if he lost control? What if he lost control, and the Soldier_ _finished what he_ **started** _?_

Just the thought of the last mission's aftermath sent him sprinting to their shared bathroom. As he rested his cheek against the porcelain of the toilet later on, the taste of vomit rancid in his mouth, the questions bounced around his already fractured brain. It was an argument he'd had with himself before; the consideration of how safe she was with him in light of his captors, and how safe she was with him in light of his instability.

He knew the Red Room or HYDRA or whatever-the-fuck-they-were-calling-themselves was after him, and if they knew about his Dashenka … well, he had to assume they were after her too, because being with him put her in danger. He'd thought, once or twice, about finding her a good home and leading his enemies on a wild goose chase away from her, but he'd done that before and Katya had died for it. And if he were honest, the idea of leaving her made his mouth go dry and chest tighten in panic. He couldn't do it, not while his enemies were out there and would see her dead – but to stay when he wasn't sure of himself, and when that lack of surety could end in her death, was something he couldn't do either.

And so he sat there on the cracked tiles of his shoddy bathroom, caught between two shitty options.

It brought to mind something he remembered someone (tall, _taller than he should be_ , blond, lots of muscles) telling him once, about a brunette who asked, "And these are your only two options?" and promptly flew into a warzone. Were those his only two options? Leaving his daughter and everything going to shit, or staying with her and everything going to shit?

He got up, flushing the toilet as he went and reaching for the glass he kept on the sink, which he used to rinse out his mouth before refilling and downing it in one. Gripping the counter, he took a few deep breaths before his reflection in the mirror caught his eye.

The pale, bearded man that stared back at him wasn't Bucky Barnes. He knew, like he knew the sky was blue and the grass green, that he'd never be Bucky Barnes again, that that man had died on a mountainside while his brother cried for him. That man in the mirror wasn't Bucky Barnes, but it wasn't the Winter Soldier either. He was something else entirely; tired, worn, not good but not evil, not a murderer.

 _Are those your only two options?_ he asked himself, not breaking eye contact with the man in the mirror. An idea began forming in the back of his head. With a bracing breath, he told himself, _No, those are not my only options._

Then he stalked out of the bathroom.

It was dark by the time he trusted himself enough to see her.

His Dashenka was curled up on her bed, faced away from the door and snuffling quietly into her pillow. From his spot in the doorway, he couldn't tell if she was still awake. Knowing her, she was probably awake and ignoring him out of spite. He paused a moment, then steeled himself and knocked on the door frame.

She twitched but didn't move to face him.

"Can I come in?" he asked softly. She ignored him. _Well that answered that question then_ , he mused to himself, quirking an eyebrow. "Alright then."

Careful not to step on the crayons strewn across the floor, he picked his way over to her and sat down on the end of the bed. He opened his mouth but closed it again just as quickly as she shifted further away from him. Hurt panged in his chest.

They existed in uncomfortable silence for a long moment. He contemplated just leaving for a split second, but reminded himself that they'd have to talk eventually, even if the topic was painful.

"I yelled at you earlier," he murmured. His Dashenka tensed up. "I yelled at you earlier, and it wasn't fair of me. You didn't do anything wrong, sweetheart, I promise you that, it's not your fault."

She rolled over and stared him down, her eyes flinty but red-rimmed. Pinned by her searching gaze (and feeling like he was being tested), he continued.

"A long time ago, around the time you were born, some very bad people did bad things to me, and sometimes it makes me scared when I sleep or remember it. And when I get scared and I hear loud noises, there's a part of me that tries to fight the noises … and the people that make them.

"When you opened the door, I was very afraid. I know," he smiled half-heartedly, pre-empting her protest, "that you think papas don't get scared, but I do. I'm scared of hurting you, because I love you so much and I don't want you to be hurt."

"You wouldn't hurt me," she rasped. Her small hand reached up and clasped his right where it braced him on the bed. His heart thudded painfully, excruciatingly aware that her voice was hoarse from tears. "I know you wouldn't hurt me, papa."

"I would never want to hurt you," he corrected, mouth dry and stomach roiling unpleasantly. "You are the most important thing in the world to me. I couldn't survive if something happened to you and it was my fault.

"But I don't think I can do it alone," he murmured. "So I need you to help me, Dashenka. You need to promise me that you won't try and wake me up while I'm sleeping unless it's an emergency. And if I ever frighten you, if I ever seem like I'll hurt you, you need to run. This book–" here he held up one of his spare notebooks "–has words in it for if I ever scare you, ok? But you should run and only use them if you have to. Do you understand?"

"I understand, papa," she said. She sat up, her teeth worrying at her lip. Suddenly she was avoiding meeting his eyes. The reason became apparent a moment later when she told him, in a voice that shook with the weight of hiding her tears, "I was really scared."

That snap? That snap was the sound of his heart breaking in two.

"Oh my baby," he whispered.

Almost of their own volition, his arms wrapped her up in a hug which she returned with the clingy fervour of a girl her age. Inwardly he cursed himself again for his weakness, for making her scared. He was supposed to be her father: it was his job to protect her from such things, and to make sure she was happy. It couldn't happen again.

"I'm so sorry," he said into her hair. His shirt where her face was pressed against it was damp with tears. "I'm so sorry, solnishka, you didn't deserve that at all. It isn't your fault."

"You said I scared you though," she sobbed. "I didn't want to scare you papa! I just wanted to show my drawing!"

"Dashenka, milaya, this is all on me. Not you, never you," he soothed. "Never think that I blame you, a thaisce, this is my problem and it's my fault, like when I'm sad all day and don't want to play. It's not you, darling, it's not you."

They sat there for a long time. He murmured endearments and apologies into her hair, hugging her close to him and assuring the both of them that they weren't alone. Eventually she nodded off, the tears long dried on her face, but he sat there, unmoved.

It had only hardened his resolve. He had to be better.

For her.


	3. Installment 3

"She did _what?_ "

Even Jimmy winced at the ridiculous pitch his voice hit. The receptionist, to her credit, didn't comment and repeated herself. As she did, James found himself running his shaking fingers through his hair.

"Ok, ok, I'll be there in half an hour," he said briskly, placing the phone back on the receiver.

A wave of light-headedness overtook him, and he found himself bracing against the wall with his left hand. Panic wrapped around his ribs, squeezing his lungs and leaving him winded. His right hand found his chest, rubbing at the tightness there, but it wasn't until he could hear Greg shuffling outside that he managed to push up off the wall and leave the office.

"All right?" said Greg, giving him a concerned look.

His boss, Greg, was a portly man with thinning brown hair, crooked teeth and bushy eyebrows that displayed his entire emotional state. They were currently furrowed, crinkling his grease-stained forehead in a way that accentuated his receding hairline. He reached out, and Jim had to conceal the shudder of revulsion that went through his spine as Greg squeezed his right shoulder.

"Uh, yeah," Jimmy said in a choked voice. He swallowed, and continued, "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry Greg, I have to go."

"Go?" repeated Greg. "Go where?"

"It's Da– Tasha. Something's wrong, apparently she got into a fight at school, and the head teacher wants me there. I know you need me to finish that Agila out back, but I really need–"

Greg cut him off with a nod.

"Quite. You run along and sort out that girl of yours." The older man waved off Jimmy's fleeting smile of gratitude.

It took Jimmy five minutes to stop his hand from trembling enough that he could steer his car. Driving one-handed was possible for him, but it was safer to do things when he had full control of his body, especially when that tight, panicky feeling had never truly left him. He took a few deep breaths as he slotted the key in the ignition and started the car.

 _She's ok_ , he told himself. _The lady said she wasn't hurt or anything, she's ok_.

It didn't help.

Jimmy had been through enough in his life that he knew 'alright' was too vague a term. Just because she was physically alright didn't mean she wasn't upset or being treated unfairly. And knowing Darya and her loathing of people poking and prodding at her, she might be hiding her injuries and not even be physically alright. It wasn't enough, to know that she was 'alright'. The thought just made his chest tighten more and his right hand tremble.

 _Well, if you hurried up and drove instead of freaking out over whether she was_ OK, _you'd get there faster and would be able to see for yourself_ , taunted a voice in the back of his head. _Instead you're wasting time debating yourself over the multiple meanings of_ 'alright'.

Jimmy's eyes flicked up to the rear view mirror, meeting his own gaze in the reflected rectangle.

 _ **Shut the fuck up**_.

The rest of the twenty minute car ride was conspicuously silent. His hand had stopped shaking.

When Jimmy finally pulled up at the gate, a blonde lady in a neatly pressed skirt hailed him over. She greeted him with a strained smile and a handshake, introducing herself as the deputy head and offering to take him to the head teacher's office. With a nod, they were off, the uncomfortable silence deafening. The deputy was clearly judging him, and finding him lacking.

That wasn't an anomaly. His constant freezing left him at the age he was when he fell, and even ten years since he hadn't aged, so Jimmy knew he looked young, too young to have a ten year old daughter by _civilised_ standards. It happened more often when he and Darya were out together and people heard her call him papá, but anyone who saw his youthful face and knew he was a father to an almost-teenager assumed the worst.

Or maybe the deputy wasn't judging him for that, but for having raised a daughter who fought other students. If so, that was another thing that couldn't be helped. He'd tried to teach Darya a strict sense of right and wrong, of standing up for people who couldn't stand up for themselves, which had translated in her mind that hitting people was occasionally acceptable. It wasn't as much of a surprise when he considered that there had been a lot of Steve Rogers stories at bedtime, so he felt comfortable enough blaming her strange honour code entirely on Steve.

As it always did when he thought of Steve, his heart gave a pang. What he wouldn't give to have Steve with him; what he wouldn't give to have Steve meet his brilliant daughter.

His train of thought was interrupted when he and the deputy turned into another corridor and his daughter came into sight, perched on a grey plastic chair and scuffing her school shoes on the linoleum. Her dark hair was messy and falling out of the pony tail he'd gathered it into that morning, and she was worrying at a thread on her skirt. In comparison, the kid seated next to her looked much worse for wear: he was holding a bloodied tissue to his nose and studiously ignoring the girl at his right. They were both being watched by a stout woman sitting underneath a sign denoting _Reception_.

At his approach, Darya's head snapped up and she went fire engine red. The kid next to her scoffed and turned his nose up, which was an impressive feat considering he was still holding the bloodied tissue to his nose.

"Hey, dad," said Darya, her breezy tone forced. "Fancy seeing you here."

Jimmy levelled an impressed stare at her. She wilted.

"What happened?" he demanded.

She bit her lip, rubbing the back of her neck.

"It's complicated?" she offered.

"Uncomplicate it."

She said nothing. Awkwardly, she shifted on the chair, refusing to meet his eyes. The deputy head teacher, standing a few paces away, motioned for him to join her. He nodded, throwing another unimpressed look at Darya, and joined the deputy in front of a door with a shiny plaque that read _'Patricia Raymond'_.

"Mr Levin, the Robinsons are with Mrs Raymond now," she told him, gesturing at the door. "If you'll follow me."

They entered the office. Spacious, and all rectangular sides and comfortable furniture, it boasted a stately walnut desk behind which a stern woman sat. Opposite her were the couple he assumed were the Robinsons. They were coifed and pressed to an extent Jimmy, having survived in mechanic sheds and convenience stores for the past ten years, hadn't seen in a very long time.

The stern woman got to her feet, holding out a hand. He shook it, and took the seat she gestured too, angled a little away from the Robinsons.

"That'll be all, Miranda," nodded Mrs Raymond. She waited until the door had clicked behind the deputy to note, "Well, I think we all know why we're here. Let's get down to it."

Ever since Darya was a little thing, she'd liked to talk. _Papá this_ and _papá that_ , she nattered on and on, sharing with him the most mundane of things. As they travelled and their collective knowledge of language expanded, her chattering had become something of a translation game, a repetition of the same idea in multiple languages as an attempt to practise her verbal and mental grasp. She'd never been quiet in his presence, always switching from tongue to tongue with the fluidity of water.

Unless, of course, they were fighting. And so, Darya had been silent the entire ride home.

It had been Jimmy ordering her to apologise to the Robinson kid that kicked off her silent protest. She'd gaped at him, face red with fury and indignation, and gotten a hard set to her jaw that told him she was going to fight him, only to be halted when he'd snapped at her. Unused to feeling the force of his anger, she'd complied with a grimace and lack of authenticity that he didn't have the strength to argue against, and they'd stalked off to the car with silence boiling between them.

From there, it had only gotten worse. He'd tried to ask her for her side, but with Darya refusing to talk to him, it had devolved into a full blown lecture that gave him spotty flashbacks to his mother doing the same to him. She'd just sat sullenly in the back seat, glaring out her window and ignoring him. If it weren't for the occasional flinches as he bandied around the words "irresponsible" and "disappointed", he'd even say she wasn't listening at all.

And then they were home, and Darya was slamming her bedroom door behind her faster than he could warn her not to. A framed picture of a toothy toddler fell off the wall.

 _God damn that Irish temper_ , he cursed as he locked and deadbolted the door behind him. He knelt down and retrieved the photo, wincing as the spidery web of cracks caught the hallway light across the toddler's smile.

Looking down at the frame, he felt tired, and old. It was a kind of bone-deep weariness that he imagined effected men his actual age often, but his was less to do with his physical state and more his sense of who he was. In that moment, for all that he looked twenty-five, he felt his eighty-four years quite keenly.

Most of it was Darya, if he was being honest. God knew he loved his daughter, but parenthood was _draining_. When she'd been a small baby, it was changings and refusing to go to sleep. Later, it had been tantrums in the supermarket when they were in a hurry and refusing to eat her dinner. It seemed he was at the "hitting other children and refusing to talk to him" phase, but God only knew how exhausted he'd be once he got fully into the teenage stage. And that wasn't even considering the amount of energy his body unconsciously poured into worrying.

The _worrying_. It was constant. It ranged from trivial to serious, and it kept him up often enough that he'd taken to religiously drinking chamomile tea in an attempt to calm down before bed (although _that_ presented problems in and of itself). And it was as volatile as he was: one moment, it would be a background worry about whether she'd taken a coat to school, and the next– **BOOM** , full blown panic attack in the _middle of the workshop like a fucking edgy sop_.

He was tired of it. He was tired of how weak he was, how _less_ he was, how _wrong_ ( **how not-him** , not-Bucky in Bucky's skin). Some days he just wanted to go to sleep, enter a blissed nothingness and never wake up – and some days, he tried to. He always felt bad about it after, because Darya was always sweet and brought him food and cuddled up to him, even though he couldn't summon the energy to say a word. Without her, he wasn't sure how he'd survive.

She deserved much better.

 _So much better._

With a sigh, he shuffled over to the kitchen, dropping the photo frame onto the far counter and flicking on the kettle. The mugs he gathered down from the cabinet were faded and chipped, and the paint of the golden smiley face was peeling somewhat, but they had never failed to bring a smile to his face. He busied himself with teabags and set the mugs on the counter before filling them with boiled water. Then he turned away from the counter to go and stand in front of his daughter's bedroom door.

He cleared his throat.

"Darya," he called. "We need to talk now."

There was no answer. He felt a twinge of annoyance and rapped on the door.

"Darya!"

"I don't want to!" she yelled back, voice muted through the wall.

He leant against the door. "You'll have to talk to me eventually," he reasoned. "Get it over and done with now. I've got some tea brewed up. How about we have a cup of tea and talk like adults?"

"Go away!" came her muffled response. "Go away! _I don't want you here!_ "

Stung, he recoiled from the door. Her answer rattled around his brain, reminding him of a time oh so long ago where their positions had been exchanged. Obviously it was something she hadn't forgotten, either, because there was clearly no hesitation in how she'd thrown that in his face.

"Darya," he tried again, swallowing down his pain. "Darya come out here right now or you'll go without dinner! Darya!"

There was no answer.

"Fine!" he shouted. "Fine! Be like that!"

He snatched his mug from the counter and grabbed his journal from the top of the fridge. _If she wants hers, she'll have to come get it_ , he thought spitefully, tossing away his teabag. Ignoring the other mug, he retreated to his room.

But after about an hour of pretending not to hear Darya crying in her room, he gave up trying to inscribe his thoughts into his journal. As he passed through the kitchen, he noted that the tea he'd left for her had gone untouched and had cooled. Almost compulsively, he tipped it out into the sink and washed it out before turning his attention to Darya's room.

He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and opened the door.

The lack of lighting hit him first. Curtains drawn against the paling afternoon sun, the room was cast in shadows. It made it hard to make out the figure curled up on the bed at first, but the serum meant that his eyes adjusted quickly enough that he noted the glint on tears of Darya's face before she turned from him.

"Oh really? Are we back at ignoring now?" he sniped. "But I so _loved_ the yelling."

She huffed, but otherwise stayed still, ignoring him in silent resistance. Such dramatics prompted an eye roll so intense that it almost gave him a headache. Pushing her feet away, he sat down on the end of the bed and crossed his arms.

With a wry smile, he asked her, "Do you know why I made you say sorry?" After a few moments of silence that told him she wouldn't respond, he continued, "Because having a disagreement with someone doesn't warrant punching them in the face. Violence should always be a last resort, and you should _never_ use it unless you absolutely have to."

"That's rich coming from you." As he gaped at her, Darya sat up, face contorted into a sneer. " _You should never use it unless you absolutely have to_. Do you think I don't notice you coming home late all bloody? And I know that Mr Castleigh doesn't pay you enough for school and the flat both. I'm _ten_ , not _stupid_."

For a moment, words caught in his throat and his mouth went dry. With narrowed eyes, he recovered quickly by levelling an unimpressed look at her, but inwardly, he reeled. He hadn't realised that she'd noticed him slipping out at night, but he supposed it shouldn't have surprised him. She was right about not being stupid.

"Considering you just got suspended for punching another kid," he said, "we're going to have to disagree on that point. What were you _thinking_? He wasn't even talking to you, couldn't you just let it go?"

"No," said Darya, jaw jutted out defiantly. "Max was being awful about James' mums, saying all kinds of terrible things. You always want me to do the right thing – what part of standing up for James wasn't the right thing?!"

"The hitting part!" he fired back. Her lips formed a hard line. "What possessed you to hit him?"

When her gaze held his, there was a familiar glint in it that transported him sixty years back, and when she told him, "I don't like bullies," it was like a long-dead Brooklyn boy was speaking through her. And yet, that glint reminded him also of the night Steve had cried about being _wrong_ , about being _sick_ , and Bucky Barnes had just hugged him and told him that nothing would ever be wrong with him. That same glint swum in his daughter's eyes, and he wondered how he could've been so insensitive and blind.

It prompted Jimmy's brow to crease and tell his daughter, "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

Her mouth twitched at the corner.

"I know," she said softly, her shoulders slumping.

His heart swelled. "C'mere," he murmured and pulled her to him. She didn't hesitate, attaching herself to his side like a limpet. Into her hair, he said, "Come on, we'll have spaghetti for dinner, and then bed."

She nodded into his neck.

"But," he added, "don't think that you're off the hook for this. Don't worry about what I go around doing, you're better than me, so there's no excuse for you to go around hitting people. You understand?"

She nodded again. He nudged her, getting up from the bed.

"Come on then, pasta time."

Jimmy's night was restless. For all that his anger towards Darya felt somewhat justified, he still felt guilty about their fight. _Well, it was less of a fight and more of a one-sided lecture,_ he reasoned with himself. Not that that made the guilt better; if anything, it made it worse. It meant he hadn't gotten more than a few hours' sleep all night.

As he lay there in bed, willing himself to fall asleep, the landline beside his bed went off. Involuntarily, he groaned, rolling over to pick up the call with a raspy, "Hello?"

" _Mr Levin, this is Patricia Raymond. I'm calling about the incident yesterday._ "

 _The head teacher?_ He cleared his throat.

"Yes, Mrs Raymond?" he replied. "I'm not sure why you're calling, I thought you said Natasha couldn't come back to school until next week?"

The other end of the line was quiet for a moment.

" _That is correct. Unfortunately, something has come up that warrants further discussion_ ," she said stiffly. Jimmy's stomach turned unpleasantly. " _I regret to inform you, Mr Levin, but Max Robinson was hospitalised yesterday afternoon, and I have just been informed that he passed during the night._ "

He went numb.

"What?" he choked out. "What do you mean he passed?!"

" _The doctors believe it was a brain haemorrhage. He'd been slowly bleeding for hours by the time they realised something was wrong, and unfortunately, nothing could be done._ "

Jimmy just– it was like there was something in his head that couldn't connect what was being said to what it meant. If she was saying what he thought she was saying, then that would mean that Darya– no, it wasn't possible, because –

"I saw him yesterday and he was alright!" he protested. "This has to be a sick joke!"

" _I'm very sorry, Mr Levin, but it isn't a joke_ ," she said. " _I'm sure you can understand that, due to the terrible nature of the situation, the authorities been informed and have told me they will visit you later on in the afternoon to collect your daughter's statement and to assess the situation_."

"The police? You're sending the police here?" he sputtered. "She's ten! And she didn't mean to kill the kid–"

" _I'm sure that will be cleared up, Mr Levin_ ," she bit out. " _I'll give you a call later as well to discuss Natasha's future with the school. Good day_."

Abruptly, the dial tone cut in. In a daze, he set the receiver down and shoved the covers down. It was only when he stood, almost lost, in the middle of his room that an uncontrollable panic started to set in.

If the police came to his house, there would be a report that they'd file in their systems, one that would have the names _Natasha and Jimmy Levin_ all over it. And any report, however vague, would be open to HYDRA inspection, especially a report that came from south London. Jimmy had tried to erase any links the Levin identities had to their last names, but he wasn't omnipotent, and past experience from Barcelona and then Bucharest warned him that underestimating HYDRA's reach was too dangerous to comprehend.

If the Levins were gone when the police came, they'd still file a report, but Jimmy and Darya would have a head start, more time to get away. And if they found them, well – HYDRA would find that their old attack dog was not as easily controlled as it once was.

And so, he got dressed and started packing. After so many years on the run and the several close calls, he'd gotten the packing down to a T. The weapons were gathered first, retrieved from their various strategic spots around the room, checked for safety and then piled on the bed. He then stripped his cupboard and drawers, tossing clothing into his duffle as he went, and did the same for the few personal effects he had before arming himself and proceeding into the kitchen.

Of the kitchenware, only the mugs from Spain made it into his duffle. Everything else he could purchase at the next location if needed. He contemplated the television in the living room, and concluded that, if he had time, it was nice enough to take with them and sell for extra funds. And with that, he dropped the duffle by the counter and went to wake up Darya.

It took a minute or two of stroking her hair and calling her name for her to rouse herself from oblivion. When she did, it was with lots of blinking and yawning. As Jimmy quietly explained to her that he needed to her to get changed into casual clothes and pack her bag quickly, the sleep slowly drained away, leaving only an alert calm.

"What's going on, papá?" she asked him. She'd already gotten up, divesting her nightie and pulling on pants and a t-shirt in almost one fluid motion. "What happened?"

He contemplated telling her about the boy, but soon decided against it. For all that she'd punched the kid, he was certain that she hadn't wanted him dead. It had been an accident, either a miscalculation of strength or an unnaturally thin skull. To tell her would only crush her heart and leave her unable to forgive herself. She was too much like him, in that respect.

"Nothing's happened," he said gently, "but we need to go now. We've been here long enough as it is."

The dubiety in her eyes, so like his own, told him that he hadn't convinced her, but she obeyed him quickly enough. As she packed, he gathered their belongings and loaded them into the car. By the time that was done, Darya was ready to go, and so they both ambled to the car in near-silence and left.

About ten minutes into their drive, Darya asked him, "Where are we going, papá?"

He shrugged.

"I'm not sure," he said, "but I've heard Poitiers is nice this time of year. What do you say, Dashenka? Up for some French hospitality?"

"Always," she said with a solemn nod.

They shared a grin, and started their next arm of their journey.


	4. Installment 4

**Hi! I've been working on this for a while, so here it is. Thanks to Devon Shea for reviewing, but unfortunately, no, Stevo and Buckaroo won't be interacting in this fic because this is the last chap :(**

* * *

Ponce was a beautiful city. Set along Puerto Rico's southern coastline, it sat at the bottom of hills that sloped gently down into the Caribbean Sea. Intersected by a number of rivers that slowly flowed out into the sea, La Perla Del Sur was surrounded by the vibrant green of the rainforest that gave way to the whites and pastels of colonial and Art Deco buildings alike, and basked in the sun's rays from dawn until dusk. Though it was hardly quiet, there were moments when one found peace in the sleepy warmth of an afternoon in Ponce.

 _Crash!_

And there were moments where that peace was but a dream. James winced, his right hand pinching at the bridge of his nose. His left hand came to rest at his hip and curled there in the fabric of his shirt. Inwardly, he cursed his father's line for what seemed like the umpteenth time in twelve years and, like always, God ignored him. It was a common theme in his life.

Steeling himself, he turned on his heel and marched down his hallway, past family pictures crooked on white walls, and to the right. He exhaled sharply and came to a stop at a splintered door hanging lopsidedly on battered hinges. The red paint, usually scratched and peeling, was marred by the brown of the fractured and unpainted wood underneath. He scowled.

"Did you just destroy your door?" he demanded. "Seriously?! What the hell!"

Something slapped against the ruin that was once called a door. James gaped, his brain processing the fact that his disobedient child had thrown something at it, and it took a moment to catch up. Rage replaced the annoyance that had been bubbling away since the onset of their argument, and he gritted his teeth against the pressing urge to yell at her.

He failed quite spectacularly at that.

"Fine!" he shouted. He stepped forward, bracing himself as he gripped the door by its edges, and pulled. It parted from the wall with a long screech from the tortured metal hinges. Over it, he yelled, "FINE! BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? DAUGHTERS WHO DON'T OBEY THEIR FATHERS DON'T GET DOORS!"

James threw the door back into the hallway. It landed, perhaps too loudly, with a smash that served well to emphasise his displeasure. Immediately, his shoulders loosened, losing some of the tightness held there, and the rigid cast of his spine slackened. There was a catharsis to smashing unfound in other stress relievers he'd tried. Chamomile tea just didn't measure up when dealing with the obstinacy of a preteen, as no doubt many parents before him had found. On that related note, he had formed a newfound respect for the restraint his mother had shown while raising him.

As some of the frustration left him, he turned back to Darya's doorway. Without him noticing, she had marched right up in his face, the scowl on her cherubic face so terrible it was as if he had murdered a puppy or something equally immoral. Standing with her hands on her hips, she was the very picture of a grim soldier going off to war against a great evil. It would be intimidating if she wasn't _just_ taller than elbow height on him.

"Give it back," she ordered. Her voice was surprisingly low pitch considering that it went up two octaves when she was in a real rage. His wonder lasted only a moment, as when she repeated herself, it was more at an otherworldly screech than any truly human sound. "Give it back!"

"Give what back?" he said, incredulity colouring his tone. Pointedly, he looked back at the pitiful fragments of her bedroom door. "You've already smashed it to bits, it's not gonna go back on!"

"UGH!" she screeched, stamping her foot before turning on her heel back to her bedroom. "I HATE YOU!"

He scoffed, following her.

"I hate that you keep _destroying my living space_. We all have to live with disappointment, Darya. Trust me, it'll become the staple of your teenage years."

She flung herself onto her bed in response and shoved her face into her pillow. Muffled screams came from it. James only endured two seconds of it before rolling his eyes so hard he almost gave himself a headache and stalking out.

Pausing at the doorframe and running a finger along the broken hinges, he winced. _So much for getting back his bond_. His seedy landlord would take any excuse for a quick buck, and a smashed door fit the bill, even if James replaced it out of his own pocket. Asshole would probably charge James extra anyway, on account of James fixing the shoddy sink without permission.

"You are so getting toast for dinner," he called over his shoulder, and then went to work on removing the lump of butchered door from his hallway.

He kept to his word. Darya ate toast for dinner that first night, and again for the next four nights because she'd whinged and bitched and threw a plate at his head which – fortunately for the both of them – missed. Not _quite_ so fortunately for Darya, though. Furious at the further destruction of his possessions, he'd condemned her to toast for the week and sworn that he wouldn't fix the door until she apologised.

"And stop acting like a child!" he had snapped at her retreating back. "You're not a baby anymore! If I'd pulled this shit when I was your age, my father would've belted me so hard I wouldn't be able to walk for a week."

Not that he ever had. While reckless, James was far from an idiot, and would never dared to even talk back to his father, let alone throw a plate. Hell, he wouldn't have spoken back to his mother, who was handier with a rolling pin than his father was with a belt. Only Harriet had been game enough to question their parents, but even she wasn't dumb enough to pull the shit with the plate.

 _Harriet_ … Darya looked like Harriet had. She had her nose, their mother's nose, and Harriet's cheekbones, though Darya's face was long like her mother's and her jaw more pointed. Sometimes when he looked at her, James thought about what had happened to Harriet – whether she'd moved away and married that James Coulson of hers, or if she'd stayed in New York. They had not been the closest of siblings – they butted heads far too often for that – but he loved her and missed her all the same.

Thinking about her was painful, for it made him think about his other sisters, and his mother too. It was unlikely that his mother was still alive, and he wondered how she had reacted when she'd been told he'd died. Had she sobbed, like she did when word of her cousin Ruthie came? Or had she gone cold as she did when his father passed? Who told her? Steve?

 _No_ , he reminded himself. _Not Steve. Steve died the day after I did._

No doubt Eleanor had broken down. Ellie was softer and kinder and sweeter than the others, for all that she was older. She'd been there when he'd met Steve, he recalled distantly, and she had helped him patch up the stubborn moron. Faintly, he remembered that Steve had been sweet on her at one point, but Ellie had only ever mooned over Henry Halwell from the block over, and they'd been married before he shipped out.

And Rebecca, his youngest sister. She was the steady one, always calm and collected, her head always cool. Even as a little kid, she never lost her temper, unlike Harriet. He'd only seen her cry when their father had died, and even that was just silent tears during the church service. Had she cried for him when she found out? Had it fazed her that her older brother was gone?

He missed them all. He missed his friends and extended family and Brooklyn. Brooklyn … he had considered going back once or twice, and Darya's recent behaviour had it on his mind, but he always felt _sick_ at the idea. To go home when it wasn't really his home anymore would be–

James was snapped out of his pondering by a familiar voice calling, "Hey Guerrero, you finished with that wheel alignment?"

He rolled out from under the hood of the Nissan he was working on, dropping the spanner he was using as he went. It fell to the concrete floor with a resounding clang. No longer encased in the car's insides, he sat up, noticing that his boss was hovering nearby. Twisting a rag in her hands, she watched him with a perfectly arched brow.

"Yeah," he answered, getting to his feet, "yeah, I'm done, just doing some minor tweaking now. Wha'd'ya need?"

Paloma jerked her chin to the waiting room. "There's someone waiting for you," she told him. "Young woman, didn't tell me her name. Just said she needed to talk to you."

"Right," said James. Alarm bells ringing in his head, he pushed the foreboding feeling hollowing out his chest back and grabbed the rag Paloma offered him. He wiped off the grease staining his hands before passing it back. "Give me five, Adriana, I'll be right back.

He ducked into the waiting room. It wasn't much, just a small room in a ramshackle building attached to the garage with only a few couches shoved around a small coffee table, It was so tiny that James felt claustrophobic just standing at the door. Opposite a vaguely familiar woman flicking through _magacín_ on the faded corduroy loveseat was María Gomez, the elderly lady with the Nissan, and she flicked him a toothy smile as she saw him in the entryway.

"Hey Sra. Gomez, Adriana is just finishing up with the car now," he told her. She nodded and thanked him, going back to her knitting. Apprehension churning in his stomach, he turned to the other lady and he said, "I'm not sure if we've met?"

She stood up quickly. Holding out her trembling hand, James shook it cautiously, unable to peel his gaze away from the twitching of her fingers.

"Sr. Guerrero," she said in an unwavering voice that was at odds with her shaking fingers, "my name is Valentina Dominguez. I was your daughter's teacher. If you wouldn't mind, I think we need to talk."

His mouth went dry. Darya's teacher … well, if HYDRA knew about Darya, then it would be the perfect cover to draw him out. Choosing to make a move on his workplace was their style too; separating Darya and he would be priority number one, and what better time to do that than an afternoon when Darya was home from school and he had yet to leave work? But that was assuming that HYDRA knew about Darya, which he couldn't be sure of. He'd taken great pains in the past to ensure they remained unaware, and the only possible place of slip up was Natasha Levin two years past.

That, of course, was another possibility. Dominguez had said she was one of Darya's past teachers, and she mightn't be lying on that count if she had taught her alongside Max Robinson. But why would a British school teacher follow them to Puerto Rico? To take revenge for the Robinsons? To take them back to England to face the consequences of Darya's actions? Unlikely, but possible.

Even so, he felt justified in turning her away. He cleared his throat.

"I don't have anything to say to you," he told her, careful to keep his voice low to avoid disrupting Sr. Gomez. Glaring at her in a way that had made trained assassins piss themselves in the past, he gestured to the exit. "I think you should leave."

To her credit, she stood her ground. She whose hands had trembled upon meeting him stared right back at him. If anything, his hostility seemed to embolden her. She folded her arms across her chest, back ramrod straight and tilting her chin challengingly.

"No, I don't think I should," she barked. She shook her head slowly, not breaking eye contact as she did so. "I don't know you, Sr. Guerrero, and I won't presume to know you. But I know your daughter, and I know she deserves better, and I won't be scared off from telling you that. You _will_ listen to me."

 _Huh_ , he thought. _Unexpected_.

His face twitched before settling into an impassive expression. She could have been a HYDRA agent, trained to lie without any indication of it, but something – in the set of her jaw, the light in her eyes – convinced him she was telling the truth. This tiny woman, virtually a stranger to Darya and he, cared enough about his daughter to _look him in the eye_ and _tell him he was wrong_ , which he knew was no small feat. Despite himself, he was impressed by her gall, and so, against his better judgment, he gestured to the exit and followed after her.

Maybe she was with some sort of social services? Usually they announced themselves, but perhaps they thought it was wiser to approach him through Darya's teacher first. It wouldn't be the first time a government tried unconventional methods to get a response from him. Not that it mattered whether she was government or HYDRA or both – he'd kill her if she tried to make a move against him.

Once cleared of the building, he gripped her elbow, leading her down the cracked pavements to a side alley tucked between and American-style diner and a hairdresser three blocks over from the garage. It was narrower than the alleys of his youth but just as decrepit as he remembered them being, with a small group of rats foraging around near dumpsters overflowing with trash. Dominguez's eyes went wide as he nudged her further down the alleyway and closer to the dumpsters behind the diner, and the shaking had returned to her hands. She shrank back from him as much as she could with her arm in his grasp.

"Sr. Guerrero!" she gasped, her voice finally as shaky as her hands. Yanking her arm out of his uncomplaining grip, she darted away. She braced herself the grimy brick walls, clinging to them as if to sink into them and escape him while eyeing the alleyway entrance that he blocked. "Sr. Guerrero, this is entirely inappropriate!"

"And visiting me at my workplace isn't?" he said mildly. His gaze darkened, glare deepening as he growled, "You wanted to talk. Talk."

Huffing, she eyed him warily and straightened. A look that warred between defiance and suspicion curled her lip and wrinkled her nose. Like a sunflower soaking up sunlight, his antagonism appeared to nourish her fight.

"She's brilliant," she said. "Laura-" his heart unclenched "-she's bright, and she learns quickly. Far quicker than the other students. I couldn't help her the way she needed help, so I had her transferred to an older class, but I worry that it's not enough. We're not equipped to help a student as advanced as her."

Relief had flooded his chest. Inwardly, he scolded himself for his unnecessary rudeness to Dominguez, who was looking less and less like a HYDRA agent or government lackey, and more like a worried teacher trying to help her student as she spoke. It wasn't like he could help it, though. Panic was always his first reaction when people called in unannounced about his daughter. His worry abated, his shoulders loosened and relaxed unconsciously.

Dominguez noticed. Strangely, this response encouraged her more than the anger had, so she went on, stepping away from the brick wall she'd backed up against.

"Our sister-school in New York has better resources and connections, they'd be better equipped–"

"So it was _you_ that told her about that," he interrupted, his mood darkening again. He rubbed at his forehead with his right hand as the picture became clearer to him. _This_ was the person that prompted the month of arguing and door-breaking and plate-throwing with ideas of New York and high school and _settling down_. "She can't go, and I've told her that. No doubt she's made you aware of that."

"And why can't she go?" she retorted, throwing her hands up. "Yes, Laura told me you said no, but she also told me that you both move around quite a bit. Odds are that you'll move again, and why not make it somewhere where she has a future? What's the issue? Money? There are programs for financial assistance that we can organise, Midtown is very flexible about it."

The laugh that came from him was as bitter as his morning coffee. Like money was the issue. It was more the added chance of HYDRA finding them and murdering them, or worse, that had him rejecting the proposal.

"You wouldn't understand, and I'm not going to waste my breath trying to make you," said James, a wry smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He looked away, exhaling shortly, before meeting her gaze again. "Don't talk to her about this again, it upsets her."

"But Sr. Guerrero–" she protested, but he cut her off with a look. Lips pressing together in displeasure, she nodded, and he turned away, starting to walk out of the alleyway. As he did so, she called out his name to his retreating back. Upon seeing him stop in his tracks, she went on. "She deserves better than this."

He exhaled.

"I know," he said, so softly he that he was unsure if she'd heard him. "She always has."

Her words settled heavily in his chest as he marched away. Sitting on his ribs, they reached down to his lungs and _squeezed_ , but he was so used to that particular worry that anyone watching him would have no clue how it affected him. After years of telling himself the same thing, he was good at hiding the whirlpool of bile it incited in his stomach.

With a nod to Paloma as he re-entered the garage, he got back to work. The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of oil and Colombian telenovelas playing in the background. He barely noticed the hours passing, so absorbed in thinking over what Dominguez had said, and was only occasionally disrupted from his work as, one-by-one, his co-workers clocked out for the day with a cheerful goodbye and a wave. By the time he was finished tweaking his last job, the sky outside had become cast in brilliant oranges and pinks, and the first of the streetlights had blinked on.

"Go on, get out of here," Paloma scolded him, "you've done more than enough for today, as usual. Go home and be with your baby."

James laughed. He grabbed a nearby rag, wiping off what grease he could, before chucking it to Paloma for her to do the same. In silence, they locked up the garage and flicked off the lights and appliances, and James debated internally whether to say something. They exited together, and it was only as each went to their car that he finally opened his mouth.

"She's angry with me right now," he said. Paloma paused, head tilted and mouth pinched slightly in concern. James blundered on. "I keep having to tell her she can't do things – not… not because I don't want her to have these opportunities, because I do, I really do and it kills me to say no – but because I want her to be _safe,_ and what she wants to do isn't safe, it's dangerous, and yeah, she does deserve these opportunities, she deserves everything this world can give her and more, but she wants me to make a decision between her safety and her future and _how the fuck_ does anyone make that decision?!"

Watching Paloma's expression changed was like watching someone take a fish to the face. Her eyes had grown wider, and her mouth gaped open slightly in surprise, which was an odd sight to James because she'd never, in the entire six months that he'd known her, looked stunned. Even so, her surprise only made the words fall out faster, unhindered and verbal for the first time since he'd found Darya.

"I try _so hard_. I just want her to be safe, and happy, but every time I try I fuck it up! I fuck it up by just existing!" he shouted. With a yell, he brought his fists down on the hood of his car. The hood crunched under his hands and when he lifted his fists from the metal, he found it warped to their shape. In a wavering voice, he muttered, "She deserves better than me."

There was silence for a moment, then–

"What," said Paloma. With a snap, she shut her still gaping mouth and paused, before opening it again to berate him. "Are you joking, Guerrero? What the hell. You work your ass off to give that kid everything she wants. Just because you're tough on her doesn't mean you don't _deserve_ her, what the hell?!"

"You don't understand," he protested, shaking his head.

She looked like she wanted to slap him upside the head to help him find his common sense.

"Maybe I don't," she conceded. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared him down. "God knows I don't know you well because you're a goddamn recluse. But you're not a bad dad for trying to _keep your kid safe_ , what the hell, bad parents don't even try. And besides, parents fuck up, it comes with the territory of raising a small human – _hell_ , it comes with the territory of being human in the first place. Recognise your fuck ups and you'll be fine."

"So you think I've fucked up?" he asked. "The condemnation is helpful, really."

She rolled her eyes. "God you're dramatic. How would I know if you've fucked up, Guerrero, I don't know you," she said. "But if you're so worried, then obviously it's for a reason. I don't want to tell you what to do, you're not my kid, you're my employee and this is your personal business. But go home, think about why you're so worried about doing whatever it is she's asking for, and if, by the end, you still think it's too dangerous, then don't do it. I think you'll find, though, that if that was the true reason why you said no, you wouldn't be worrying like this."

James stared at her, stuck on that last point. HYDRA was his main reason for saying no, obviously, was she suggesting that it wasn't? He was conflicted, definitely, but that didn't mean that Darya's safety wasn't _always_ his primary concern. It would always be his main reason for telling her no … wasn't it?

"And for the love of God," she sighed, "talk to your kid. Resolve it together. And no matter what tantrums she throws, don't lose your cool. It doesn't help."

He rubbed the nape of his neck. "You're right," he agreed, nodding.

"I'm always right."

"I'm an idiot."

"Yep." She patted him on the shoulder, her lips pursed as if she wanted to laugh at his misfortune but was too well-mannered to do it. "Good luck, Guerrero, you'll need it."

"Thank you," he said, but she had already waved him off and wandered over to her car.

Pausing at the car door, she looked back over at him. The challenging eyebrow that had been raised throughout their conversation had settled, and she was looking at him pityingly.

"Guerrero," she murmured, voice low enough that even he with all his enhancements was straining to hear her, "our kids always deserve better. And when you can, you give it to them. But if you can't … we're human. We're not perfect. Sometimes it means that your kid misses out, because that's what's best for them even if it doesn't look like it at first. Don't beat yourself up over it."

With a nod, she unlocked the door, and in a swift motion had sat down and closed it behind her. As he stood there, watching her pull out of the car lot, he felt … tired, as always, but the pressure was gone off his chest. Or maybe it was a different kind of pressure? He knew he'd have to talk to Darya, that he had no other option, and keeping his cool when she was raging at him was easier said than done, so he wasn't exactly looking forward to it. And he was still confused about what Paloma had said about his main reason for saying no.

But the reminder that he wasn't good enough, the constant _thump-thump-thump_ , had … not so much disappeared – it probably never would – but lessened. The need to push himself beyond his limits had let up and he could breathe again, although it was like breathing through cotton sheets in a New York summer without a fan.

He'd needed the perspective. He'd needed to be told to think about it, to truly consider what Darya was rooting for as an option rather than shooting it down. He'd needed to be told that it was ok to make a mistake.

Especially when that seemed all he was capable of doing.

Was he making a mistake in choosing between Darya's safety and her happiness? Was that truly the question he was asking? Until that afternoon, he'd been sure that it was a determination between the dangers of going to New York where HYDRA could find them easier and Darya's future career, but after speaking to Paloma, he wasn't so sure.

His drive home was quiet, punctuated only by twinges of annoyance as he laid eyes upon the imprints of his fists in his hood. They made him wince every time he saw them, though the damage didn't appear too severe. Nothing that a few smacks and some paint wouldn't fix. He cringed. Fortunately for his sensibilities, the unit he and Darya lived at was only ten minutes by car from the garage, and it wasn't long before he was pulling into their car port and hopping out.

"Darya," he called as he unlocked the side door and let himself in. "Are you home? We need to talk."

Thuds met his ears. From down the end of the hall, Darya poked her head around a corner, her expression apprehensive. To his surprise, another dark-haired girl did the same and it took a moment of confusion as to where he'd acquired another child to realise that his daughter had a friend over.

"Um, hello," he said uncertainly. Two sets of eyes, one brown and one blue, blinked back at him. He cleared his throat. "I don't know if we've met, but now isn't the best of times. You can come back tomorrow if you want."

Twin sighs of disappointment carried down the hall. The child that was not his daughter skipped towards the door as the child that was his daughter trudged behind her. When they passed him, they exchanged hugs at the doorway and the other kid left with a wave goodbye.

Turning to him, Darya scowled. Almost on instinct, he started to scowl back, but remembered Paloma's advice, and rearranged his face into a more neutral expression. That seemed to stump Darya, who faltered for at least a second before her glare was back in full force.

Jerking his head towards the door, he asked innocently, "Who was that?" It was a bit of a laugh for him, of course: he knew exactly who it was.

Darya blushed bright red all the way to the roots of her hair. Folding her arms, the degree of fire behind her glare intensified. It would have been more intimidating if she weren't twelve and he wasn't an enhanced assassin on the run from a shady international Nazi organisation, but she tried.

"She's a friend," she said shortly, eyebrows twitching, daring him to comment otherwise.

He did so gladly.

"Oh," he piped up, "right. A friend. That wasn't Clarita then? The girl you keep talking about who has nice hair and a pretty singing voice?"

"Papá!" she screeched. She looked positively scandalised. "Yes, that's Clarita, but she's just a friend!"

"Did I say she was more?" he exclaimed, that faux innocence still colouring his tone. He smiled softly. "You know I don't mind, Darya."

The glare drained away from her face until she just looked very, very young. She huffed, but it lacked the heat it had had those past few weeks. There was a calmness about her eyes, a steadiness, and it was like looking into Rebecca's eyes sixty years past. It stole his breath away for a moment and left unshed tears in his eyes, and he had to look away to compose himself.

Darya was a living reminder that he'd never see his sisters again, or his mother, or Steve, or even those asshole punks down the road. Everyone he knew, as he knew them, were gone. The buildings, too, had probably changed, the shops turned to towering scrapers that touched the sky. New York as he knew it was gone, swallowed by time, and the thought of going back when he wasn't truly going back …

He cleared his throat and turned back to Darya. She was waiting patiently, her eyebrows creased in the middle in concern.

"We need to talk about New York," he said stiffly. Her eyes lit up, though she only nodded solemnly and followed him to their living room. Perching uneasily on the arm of a couch, he surveyed her as she sat down quietly onto the armchair. "Why do you want to go?"

Surprise coloured her features. After the past month they had had, but more specifically that past week, she obviously wasn't expecting to be asked why she wanted to go. He hadn't before then, after all.

She took a breath.

"I… Midtown has an amazing program," she started. "They've just started branching into supporting political science as a serious subject, and the testimonials from the pilot students who started in Midtown and went on to major in POLSIS in their college degrees are promising. It's affordable, and they have scholarships to help out, and coming from here, from my school and with the references the teachers here will give me, I'm a shoe in."

She paused, biting her lip. Her eyes darted between spots on the floor, and James knew she was thinking through what to say next. Not for the first time, James realised that his daughter was much more thoughtful than she let on. She met his eyes.

"This is … the best opportunity I have to actually become someone."

Exhaling, James looked down at his hands. Calloused and scarred, the right hand stood in stark contrast to the leather-gloved left, as it often did. It would be harder to conceal in New York, what with the greater population and more cameras, which meant a greater chance of HYDRA finding them. It would be harder to hide in general, although the beard he wore made it harder to identify him.

But a larger city could mean that HYDRA could miss them in the crowds. New York had around eight million people living in it, three million of those immigrants. Two immigrants from Puerto Rico? They'd blend in easily, and once Darya had a greater grip on an American accent, they'd have less trouble. And if HYDRA knew nothing about Darya, the better off they were, because it meant they were unlikely to be looking for a man and his teenaged daughter. Besides, who'd think to look for the Winter Soldier in a mechanic's garage or as a carpet cleaner?

Still, he hesitated.

"And after the way you've been behaving, what else can you say as to why I should consider it?" he asked. Piercing grey eyes held his daughter in place, even as she squirmed. "This program requires dedication and maturity. You threw a plate at my head for telling you not. Surely this shows me that you're not mature enough to dedicate yourself to the program like you should?"

She closed her eyes, sighing in resignation and biting her lip.

"I know I've been a brat," she said softly. Eyes not unlike his own peeled open, and he was caught in turn by her own blue gaze. "I've been rude, and angry, and I've tried to hurt you, and for that: I'm very sorry. I was being unfair to you, especially after everything you do for me and our family, and if you think that my behaviour means that I'm not ready, then I won't argue."

"I don't think you're ready," he said. She hung her head, and he hesitated again before biting the bullet. "But … I could be persuaded to think otherwise."

Her face jerked involuntarily in surprise, and she nodded quickly.

"I will, I'll persuade you," she said decisively. "I'll do everything I can to prove to you that you're right to put your trust in me. I promise."

And so that's what she did. For over a month, Darya washed his car, went and bought groceries while he was at work, did her homework early and well-enough that her principal called him to praise her, and helped clean the unit. After long days underneath hoods and getting covered in grease, she would make them dinner (although the extent of her cooking was mac 'n cheese which became tedious after four nights in a row). She got very good at making hot chocolate before bed and the taste was so familiar that it brought flashbacks to the night that his mother had managed to buy drinking chocolate for Ellie's birthday. And a week into her self-motivated servitude, she helped him fix up the door to her room.

The night that changed it all, though, was when she brought a Ziploc bag of crumpled dollar notes to him.

"I broke the door," she explained, "and I know Sr. Fue probably won't give you your bond back. I mean, it doesn't cover it, but I can keep saving, and–"

"Darya, mija, no," he said, pushing the bag back into her hands. Sickness curled at the pit of his stomach. "No. I have enough money saved, we're going to be ok."

As her mouth formed an 'oh', he was struck by how much he loved this little girl, with her tantrums and stubbornness and brilliant smiles. Compassion came easily to her, much easier than it came to him. There he was, telling her she couldn't do something with her life because it would be dangerous when, in reality, it was more that he was afraid. Afraid of New York and what it would look like without his family, but afraid, too, of her growing up.

Afraid of her not needing him.

He could handle the danger. He _would_ handle the danger. It had been almost eleven years, and they were alive and together! They must have been at least _somewhat_ successful at hiding from HYDRA, even if there had been close calls. And besides, New York was big and there were lots of people. They would be ok.

And so, even though the thought of a New York without his family made him feel sick …

"You're going to need a new, American-sounding name for when we get to the States," James told her. A warmth spread through his chest as she brightened up, and the wide grin on her face told him he'd done the right thing. "Maybe we'll make this one permanent."

Squealing like she was gifted an entire candy store all to herself, she bounced to her feet and threw arms around his neck, prompting a soft "omph" and almost cutting off his oxygen circulation with how tight she was holding him. Laughter that started deep in his chest bubbled uncontrollably out of his mouth, and Darya joined in. Wrapping his arms around her and returning her hug, he pressed a kiss into her hair.

"Thank you, papá, thank you," she breathed. The blue of her eyes shone with tears of happiness. "You won't regret it, I promise."

He smiled at her. The warmth in his chest was almost unbearable at that point.

"No, darling," he murmured, "I don't think I will."

They hugged again, and that time James could feel her tears dampening his shirt. It brought him back to when she was little and crying over a skinned knee, and suddenly he was struck by how grown up she was. His little girl, almost thirteen and more sure of herself than he was at– well, his age then. He wanted to hold her tight and never let go; to freeze them in that moment forever when she hadn't yet realised who he was and still looked at him like he hung the moon.

Slowly, they separated and he got a good look at her face. Darya's eyes were red-rimmed but crinkled at the edges, and the tears swum happily with her grin. He held her at arm's length, taking her in as his heart constricted in his chest and his eyes filled against his will.

"Well, I'm dying to know what you want to go with," he joked, but the quiver in his voice belied his carefree words. "Think carefully – it's only going to last the rest of your life."

Snorting, she rolled her eyes. "You're a loser," she giggled, bopping him on the arm and getting up. She stood in the middle of their living room, face twisted in thought as she looked around the room, though for what James was unsure. Her gaze alighted upon the book she'd been reading for her English class, and she beamed as she retrieved it.

"What?" he asked as he tilted his head, watching her with a fond smile.

She held up the book. "Darya and Dasha sound a hell of a lot like Darcy, don't they?" she mused. She thumped the book against his chest.

Considering it with unwavering hands, he read the gold-embossed title, _Pride and Prejudice_ , and arched a brow. "Thought Darcy was the guy?" he questioned.

"Yeah," she answered, with the patience of one explaining something simple to a child, "but it's better than _Elizabeth_ , for God's sake. Don't wanna sound like I'm fifty. And Mr Darcy was an ass and I'm awesome, so at least this way I can redeem the name."

He chuckled. "Well, it suits you," he said. "It's got moxie."

"Jeez papá," she said impatiently, "you're such an old man."

Darya darted off, no doubt to start packing despite not yet being accepted to Midtown or even having left her old school, but not before pecking him on the cheek. With a laugh, he sat back down into his armchair as she scampered off, winding _Pride and Prejudice_ in his hands and gazing at it with a bittersweet heart.

 _Things are starting to look up though_ , he told himself. _Really looking up_.

After all, Bucky Barnes was finally going home.

* * *

Thank you for reading, I truly appreciate it. After the hell of the last month or so - assessment, hell survey, etc., etc. - it's been really hard to keep myself motivated to write. That's why I've written a lot of shorter things, just to keep myself writing, rather than focusing on this or on the next bit. But knowing that people are reading this - that they like it even! - makes me feel really happy, so please feel free to hit like or review. Comments are like 10/10 like pls tell me what I'm doing wrong :)))))))) And feel free to ask questions. I look forward to it. Also feel free to message me on tumblr, I'm race-jackson23.


End file.
